Chapter 2: Checking In
by malachi3134
Summary: Lharko checks in with some trusted friends before leaving Whiterun for Riften.


**I hope you enjoy this modern-day tale of Skyrim. Times have changed, but some crime never goes away.**

**Please review. I will add more chapters soon.  
**

**Chapter 1: A Call to Action**

Another day, another phone call.

Lharko answered with his usual caution. "Hello?" he growled in the Imperial tongue.

"We got a job for you. Riften. The Ratway." The voice sounded agitated and hoarse, like he hadn't slept in a week, but the accent was clearly Nordic.

"Can Lharko ask who's calling?"

"Never mind that," barked the weary voice. "Just get over here by tomorrow. Meet me at the Riften PD."

Lharko checked his watch. It was already getting late, almost eight. From the window of his 37th floor office, he could see the last rays of scarlet sunlight disappearing behind the western mountains. He hadn't feasted since daybreak, and his stomach gave off a feline growl.

"Lharko will have to check in with the boss," he assured him. "But he'll what he can."

"Don't check with the boss," came the harried reply. "I just want you."

Lharko stared at the phone for a second before hanging up, leaving his caller in uncertainty. That was how he worked. Keep 'em guessing.

It was time to head out. If he had to fly out to that hellhole tomorrow to track down Talos-knows-who, he would want a good night's sleep first. Lharko opened his desk drawer, pulled out the .44, and slid it into his belt. That fine piece of Deadric steel always stayed within easy reach. He scooped the pile of unsorted papers off his desk and slid them into his dark briefcase.

"Care to join me supper, Lharko?" asked Balladir, a jovial High Elf who towered almost a foot above Lharko's head.

"No thanks. Lharko's hittin' up the Fish Hole." He knew Balladir's style. He would invite you out to the fanciest tavern in Whiterun, and then make you pay for it. Lharko's budget was tight enough as it was. Besides, he was dying for some real food, and some ale to wash it down. Maybe a few shots of Skooma to go with it, but nothing too serious. He had to keep his mind as sharp as his claws.

He left the glass building in the Plains District and took the metro down to the Southside, where the sewage of Whiterun gushed out into the foul-smelling White River. The train was full, mostly of dark-skinned Imperials and Redguards. They had been migrating north to Skyrim over the last few years, ever since the Skooma wars had heated up down south. Most of the immigrants lived by the river, where crime festered like a skeever bite. Lharko was used to it, though. At least it wasn't Riften.

Commuters hopped on and off the train as they descended through the inner city. At one point, a Nord with a thick blond moustache stepped through the doors and swaggered up to Lharko's seat. "Gimme your seat, rug." he muttered in Nordic, using the same old slur that had been around since the old times, when Nords had still carried axes.

"Certainly," Lharko growled, rising in mock deference. "Just try to watch the tail."

The Nord grinned foolishly, trying to nudge Lharko out of the way, until a thick furry tail swung around and jabbed him right below the belt. The man buckled over in pain, clutching his groin, as the rest of the commuters gasped.

"Helps to have something hanging between your legs," Lharko murmured as he sauntered off the metro.

He came out just a few blocks from the Fish Hole, a favorite nightclub of all the Khajiit in Whiterun. Rarely did a man show up at the door without whiskers and a tail, and when he did, Barugo the bartender gave him such a puzzled look he usually shuffled right back out.

He found his usual early-night crowd at the bar. With a toothy grin and a greeting purr, Barugo asked what he would like to drink.

"The usual. Red ale on the rocks. With a touch of Juniper."

Barugo popped open a bottle and poured the sweet-smelling liquid into a tall glass. "How's the girl, Lharko? She ever gonna decide to move north?"

"Nah, Lharko doubts it," he replied, taking a hearty gulp of the bubbling malt beverage. By the Nine Divines, it was good. "Lharko keeps tellin' her he got room, but she can't get too far away from the jungle. You know how some cats are."

"Sure do," Barugo grumbled, leaning his elbow on the table. In the corner, a singer was bellowing out the native songs of Elsweyr. The familiar tunes brought a poignant sense of longing to Lharko's pointed ears.

"Lharko won't be stayin' too long," he explained, after draining his glass. "Got to make some phone calls. Gonna be a killer day tomorrow."

"Have it your way," Barugo shrugged.

Lharko paced around the nightclub, chatting with a few of his old drinking friends for a minute, and gobbling down a couple of steamed slaughterfish. Having quenched his appetite, he tossed a few septims on the table, muttered his goodbyes and hurried out of the tavern into the cool night air. The putrid smell of the river wafted up to his overly sensitive nostrils. The curse of the cat, they called it. If someone passed wind a mile away, your nose never forgot it. But his nose had gotten him his job, along with his claws and muscle.

He gazed out at the dark river, visible only between the gaps of neon-lit strip clubs and skooma houses. Not tonight, he thought. A few dozen miles to the south, the Throat of the World towered over the city, taller than even the most ambitious of Whiterun's flashy skyscrapers. And somewhere out there, way off to the east, was Riften. Sin city, they called it. The hellhole. Back in the old days it had been run by some kind of Thieves' Guild, in the centuries since, things hadn't improved. Lharko sighed. The last time he'd been in Riften, he'd been a lad of seventeen, and would've died if it hadn't been for some Nord who saved his tail at the last second.

But Lharko never turned down a call, not when he could help it.

**Thank you for reading! I will update soon. **


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